“Why call me instead of the cops?”
Munir reached inside his jacket and pulled out some Polaroids. His hand trembled as he passed them over.
“This is why.”
The first showed an attractive blond woman, thirty or so, dressed in a white blouse and a dark skirt, gagged and bound to a chair in front of a blank, unpainted wall. A red plastic funnel had been inserted through the gag into her mouth. A can of Drano lay propped in her lap.
Her eyes held Jack for a moment—pale blue and utterly terrified. Caution: Contains lye was block printed across the bottom of the photo.
Jack grimaced and looked at the second photo. At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at, like one of those pictures you get when the camera accidentally goes off in your hand. A big meat cleaver took up most of the frame, but the rest was –
He repressed a gasp when he recognized the bare lower belly of a little boy, his hairless pubes, his little penis laid out on the chopping block, the cleaver next to it, ominously close.
Okay. He hadn’t called the cops.
Jack handed back the photos.
“How much do they want?”
“I don’t believe it is a ‘they.’ I think it is a ‘he.’ And he does not seem to want money. At least not yet.”
“He’s a psycho?”
“I think so. He seems to hate Arabs—all Arabs—and has picked on me.” Munir’s features suddenly constricted into a tight knot as his voice cracked. “Why me?”
Jack realized how close this guy was to tumbling over the edge. He didn’t want him to start blubbering here.
“Easy, guy,” he said softly. “Easy.”
Munir rubbed his hands over his face, and when next he looked at Jack, his features were blotchy but composed.
“Yes. I must remain calm. I must not lose control. For Barbara. And Robby.”
Jack had a nightmare flash of Gia and Vicky in the hands of some of the psychos he’d had to deal with and knew at that moment he was going to be working with Munir. The guy was okay.
“An Arab hater. One of Kahane’s old crew, maybe?”
“No. Not a Jew. At least not that I can tell. He keeps referring to a brother who was killed in the Trade Towers. I’ve told him that I’m an American citizen just like him. But he says I’m from Saudi Arabia, and Saudis brought down the Towers and an Arab’s an Arab as far as he’s concerned.”
“Start at the beginning,” Jack said. “Any hint that this was coming?”
“Nothing. Everything has been going normally.”
“How about someone from the old country.”
“I have no ‘old country.’ I’ve spent more of my life in America than in Saudi Arabia. My father was on long-term assignment here with Saud Petroleum. I grew up in New York. I was in college here when he was transferred back. I spent two months in the land of my birth and realized that my homeland was here. I made my Hajj, then returned to New York. I finished school and became a citizen.”
“Still could be someone from over there behind it. I mean, your wife doesn’t look like she’s from that part of the world.”
“Barbara was born and raised in Westchester.”
“Couldn’t marrying someone like that drive one of these fundamentalists—”
“No. Absolutely not.” Munir’s face hardened. Absolute conviction steeled his voice. “An Arab would never do what this man has done to me.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“He made me . . . he made me eat . . .” The rest of the sentence seemed to be lodged in Munir’s throat. “. . . pork. And made me drink alcohol with it. Pork!”
Jack almost laughed. Munir was most assuredly a Moslem. But still, what was the big deal? Jack could think of things a whole lot worse he could have been forced to do.
“What’d you have to do—eat a ham on rye?”
“No. Ribs. He told me to go to a certain restaurant on Forty-seventh Street last Friday at noon and buy what he called ‘a rack of baby back ribs.’ Then he wanted me to stand outside on the sidewalk to eat them and wash them down with a bottle of beer.”
“Did you?”
Munir bowed his head. “Yes.”
Jack was tempted to ask if he liked the taste but stifled the question. Some folks took this stuff very seriously. He’d never been able to fathom how otherwise intelligent people allowed their dietary habits to be controlled by something written in book hundreds or thousands of years ago by someone who didn’t have indoor plumbing. But then he didn’t understand a lot of things about a lot of people. He freely admitted that. And what they ate or didn’t eat, for whatever reasons, was the least of those mysteries.
“So you ate pork and drank a beer to save your wife and child. Nobody’s going to call out the death squads for that. Or are they?”
“He made me choose between Allah and my family,” Munir said. “Forgive me, but I chose my family.”
“I doubt if Allah or any sane person would forgive you if you hadn’t.”
“But don’t you see? He made me do it at noon on Friday.”
“So?”
“That is when I should have been in my mosque, praying. It is one of the five duties. No follower of Islam would make a fellow believer do that. He is not an Arab, I tell you. You need only listen to the tape to know that.”
“Okay. We’ll get to the tape in a minute. Munir had told Jack that he’d been using his answering machine to record the nut’s calls since yesterday. “Okay. So he’s not an Arab. What about enemies? Got any?”
“No. We lead a quiet life. I run the auditing department at Saud Petrol. I have no enemies. Not many friends to speak of. We keep very much to ourselves.”
If that was true—and Jack had learned the hard way over the years never to take what the customer said at face value—then Munir was indeed the victim of a psycho. And Jack hated dealing with psychos. They didn’t follow the rules. They tended to have their own queer logic. Anything could happen. Anything.
“All right. Let’s start at the beginning. When did you first realize something was wrong?”
“When I came home from work Thursday night and found our apartment empty. I checked the answering machine and heard a distorted voice telling me that he had my wife and son and that they’d be fine if I did as I was told and didn’t go to the police. And if I had any thought of going to the police in spite of what he’d said, I should look on the dresser in our bedroom. The photographs were there.” Munir rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I sat up all night waiting for the phone to ring. He finally called me Friday morning.”
“And told you that you had to eat pork.”
Munir nodded. “He would tell me nothing about Barbara and Robby except that they were alive and well and were hoping I wouldn’t ‘screw up.’ I did as I was told, then hurried home and tried to vomit it up. He called and said I’d ‘done good.’ He said he’d call me again to tell me the next trick he was going to make me do. He said he was going to ‘put me through the wringer but good.’ ”
“What was the next trick?”
“I was to steal a woman’s pocketbook in broad daylight, knock her down, and run with it. And I was not to get caught. He said the photos I had were ‘Before.’ If I was caught, he would send me ‘After.’ ”
“So you became a purse-snatcher for a day. A successful one, I gather.”
Munir lowered his head. “I’m so ashamed . . . that poor woman.” His features hardened. “And then he sent the other photo.”
“Yeah? Let’s see it.”
Munir suddenly seemed flustered. “It’s—it’s at home.”
He was lying. Why?
“Bull. Let me see it.”
“No. I’d rather you didn’t—”
“I need to know everything if I’m going to help you.” Jack thrust out his hand. “Give.”
With obvious reluctance, Munir reached into his coat and passed across another still. Jack immediately understood his reluctance.
He saw the same blond
woman from the first photo, only this time she was nude, tied spread-eagle on a mattress, her dark pubic triangle toward the camera, her eyes bright with tears of humiliation; an equally naked dark-haired boy crouched in terror next to her.
And I thought she was a natural blonde was written across the bottom.
Jack’s jaw began to ache from clenching it closed. He handed back the photo.
“And what about yesterday?”
“I had to urinate in the street before the Imperial Theater at a quarter to three in the afternoon.”
“Swell,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Sunday matinee time.”
“Correct. But I would do it all again if it would free Barbara and Robby.”
“You might have to do worse. In fact, I’m sure you’re going to have to do worse. I think this guy’s looking for your limit. He wants to see how far he can push you, wants to see how far you’ll go.”
“But where will it end?”
“Maybe with you killing somebody.”
“Him? Gladly! I—”
“No. Somebody else. A stranger. Or worse—somebody you know.”
Munir blanched. “No. Surely you can’t be . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Why not? He’s got you by the balls. That sort of power can make a well man sick and a sick man sicker.” He watched Munir’s face, the dismay tugging at his features as he stared at the tabletop. “What’ll you do?”
A pause while Munir returned from somewhere far away. “What?”
“When the time comes. When he says you’ve got to choose between the lives of your wife and son, and the life of someone else. What’ll you do?”
Munir didn’t flinch. “Do the killing, of course.”
“And the next innocent victim? And the one after that, and the one after that? When do you say enough, no more, finis?”
Munir flinched. “I . . . I don’t know.”
Tough question. Jack wondered how he’d answer if Gia and Vicky were captives. How many innocent people would die before he stopped? What was the magic number? Jack hoped he never had to find out. The Son of Sam might end up looking like a piker.
“Let’s hear that tape.”
Munir pulled a cassette out of side pocket and slid it across. Jack slipped it into the Walkman. Maybe listening to this creep would help him get a read on him.
He handed Munir one headset and slipped the other over his ears. He hit PLAY.
The voice on the tape was electronically distorted. Two possible reasons for that. One obviously to prevent voice-print analysis. But he also could be worried that Munir would recognize his voice. Jack listened to the snarling Southern accent. He couldn’t tell through the electronic buzz if it was authentic or not, but no question about the sincerity of the raw hate snaking through the phone line. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the voice.
Something there . . . something about this guy . . . a picture was forming . . .
5
Munir found it difficult to focus on the tape. After all, he had listened to that hated voice over and over until he knew by heart every filthy word, every nuance of expression. Besides, he was uneasy here. He never frequented places where liquor was served. The drinking and laughter at the bar—they were alien to his way of life. So he studied this stranger across the table from him instead.
This man called Repairman Jack was most unimpressive. True, he was taller than Munir, perhaps five-eleven, but with a slim, wiry physique. Nothing at all special about his appearance. Brown hair with a low hairline, and such mild brown eyes; had he not been seated alone back here, he would have been almost invisible. Munir had expected a heroic figure—if not physically prepossessing, at least sharp, swift, and viper deadly. This man had none of those qualities. How was he going to wrest Barbara and Robby from their tormentor’s grasp? It hardly seemed possible.
And yet, as he watched him listening to the tape with his eyes closed, stopping it here and there to rewind and hear again a sentence or phrase, he became aware of the man’s quiet confidence, of a hint of furnace-hot intensity roaring beneath his ordinary surface. And Munir began to see that perhaps there was a purpose behind Jack’s manner of dress, his whole demeanor being slanted toward unobtrusiveness. He realized that this man could dog your steps all day and you would never notice him.
When the tape was done, the stranger took off his headphones, removed the cassette from the player, and stared at it.
“Something screwy here,” he said finally.
“What do you mean?”
“He hates you.”
“Yes, I know. He hates all Arabs. He’s said so, many times.”
“No. He hates you.”
“Of course. I’m an Arab.”
What was he getting at?
“Wake up, Munir. I’m telling you this guy knows you and he hates your guts. This whole deal has nothing to do with nine-eleven or Arabs or any of the bullshit he’s been handing you. This is personal, Munir. Very personal.”
No. It wasn’t possible. He had never met anyone, had never been even remotely acquainted with a person who would do this to him and his family.
“I do not believe it.” His voice sounded hoarse. “It cannot be.”
Jack leaned forward, his voice low. “Think about it. In the space of three days this guy has made you offend your God, offend other people, humiliate yourself, and who knows what next? There’s real nastiness here, Munir. Cold, calculated malice. Especially this business of making you eat pork and drink beer at noon on Friday when you’re supposed to be at the mosque. I didn’t know you had to pray on Fridays at noon, but he did. That tells me he knows more than a little about your religion—studying up on it, most likely. He’s not playing this by ear. He’s got a plan. He’s not putting you through this ‘wringer’ of his just for the hell of it.”
“What can he possibly gain from tormenting me?”
“Torment, hell. This guy’s out to destroy you. And as for gain, I’m guessing on revenge.”
“For what?” This was so maddening. “I fear you are getting off course with this idea that somehow I know this insane man.”
“Maybe. But something he said during your last conversation doesn’t sit right. He said he was being ‘a lot more generous than you’d ever be.’ That’s not a remark a stranger would make. And then he said ‘faux pas’ a little while after. He’s trying to sound like a redneck but I don’t know too many rednecks with faux pas in their vocabulary.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he knows me personally.”
“You said you run a department in this oil company.”
“Yes. Saud Petrol. I’m head of Stateside operations division.”
“Which means you’ve got to hire and fire, I imagine.”
“Of course.”
“Look there. That’s where you’ll find this kook—in your personnel records. He’s the proverbial Disgruntled Employee. Or Former Employee. Or Almost Employee. Someone you fired, someone you didn’t hire, or someone you passed over for promotion. I’d go with the first—some people get very personal about being fired.”
Munir searched his past for any confrontations with members of his department. He could think of only one and that was so minor –
Jack was pushing the tape cassette across the table.
“Call the cops,” he said.
Fear wrapped thick fingers around Munir’s throat and squeezed. “No! He’ll find out! He’ll—”
“I can’t help you, pal. This isn’t my thing. You need more than I can give you. You need officialdom. You need a squad of paper-shufflers doing background checks on the people past and present in your department. I’m small potatoes. No staff, no access to fingerprint files. You need all of that and more if you’re going to get your family through this. The FBI’s good at this stuff. They can stay out of sight, work in the background while you deal with this guy up front.”
“But—”
He rose and clapped a hand on Munir’s shoulder as he passe
d.
“Good luck.”
And then he was walking away . . . blending into the crowd around the bar . . . gone.
6
Charlie popped out his door down the hall just as Munir was unlocking his own.
“Thought that was you.” He held up a Federal Express envelope. “This came while you were out. I signed for it.”
Munir snatched it from him. His heart began to thud when he saw the name Trade Towers in the sender section of the address label.
“Thanks, Charlie,” he gasped and practically fell into his apartment.
“Hey, wait. Did you–?”
The door slammed on Charlie’s question as Munir’s fingers fumbled with the tab of the opening strip. Finally he got a grip on it and ripped it across the top. He looked inside. Empty except for shadows. No. It couldn’t be. He’d felt a bulge, a thickness within. He up-ended it.
A photograph slipped out and fluttered to the floor.
Munir dropped to a squat and snatched it up. He groaned as he saw Barbara—naked, gagged, bound spread-eagle on the bed as before, but alone this time. Something white was draped across her midsection. Munir looked closer.
A newspaper. A tabloid. The Post. The headline was the same he’d seen on the newsstands this morning. And Barbara was staring at the camera. No tears this time. Alert. Angry. Alive.
Munir wanted to cry. He pressed the photo against his chest and sobbed once, then looked at it again to make sure there was no trickery. No, it was real.
At the bottom was another one of the madman’s hateful inscriptions: She watched.
Barbara watched? Watched what? What did that mean?
Just then the phone rang. Munir leaped for it. He pressed the RECORD button on the answerphone as soon as he recognized the distorted voice.
Finished barfing yet, Mooo-neeer?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean. But I thank you for this photo. I’m terribly relieved to know my wife is still alive. Thank you.”
He wanted to scream that he ached for the day when he could meet him face to face and flay him alive, but said nothing. Barbara and Robby could only be hurt by angering this madman.
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